


The Gift

by anemptymargin



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Panties, Present Tense, Prison Sex, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anemptymargin/pseuds/anemptymargin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Schillinger comes bearing gifts. And nothing good can come of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> _BIG ASS TRIGGER WARNING:_ This contains graphic, first person rape.
> 
> My first Oz fic, and I'm honestly not even sure where this one came from. Their dynamic in the first season just begs for more.

I’m coming down, I can feel the throb through my toes as the pod spins and sways in the cradle of Oz. I’ve gotten used to the sensation – almost – the hours of coming down until I get more… it’s not so different from drinking, really. Coping. Coping with the tedium and the fear.

Coping with the hollow shriek of the metal springs above me as they shift and contract. It’s the loudest sound in the world and Whittlesey doesn’t even fucking hear it in her little ivory tower – or if she does, she doesn’t care. Nobody cares.

“Get up,” Schillinger’s voice groans as he drops down to the floor and puts his knee on my bunk.

I know it’s hot, but I can’t stop shivering. Instead, I roll away from him and onto my stomach – lowering the blanket because I know if I don’t he’ll take it away and I’ll have nothing to hide under when he’s done.

“No, that’s not good enough Sweat Pea. Get yer ass up.”

“I’m tired.” I manage to talk with some conviction, slowly rolling back toward him before sitting up. I wait for him to shove his cock in my face again, I’ll get it over with and then he’ll leave me alone long enough to make it through another night. Instead, I get the hot sting of palm flat across my face and the taste of blood in my mouth.

“Don’t you back talk. I know what’s going on here. You been hanging out with that mick again, haven’t ya? What’s he got you on? Probably heroin… maybe not…”

It’s hard to think, but I know I need to say something or he’ll only hit me again. “No… sir, no. It’s nothing...”

He slaps me again and then knots his hand at the back of my head, yanking hard enough for me to look up at his cold eyes. “Fucking liar.” He shakes his head and I can’t help the sinking feeling something terrible is about to happen… and I’m usually right. “After I got you a present and everything.”

A present. Hah. I don’t want anything he has to give me, but all the same I know if I say that it’ll only make things even worse. My stomach lurches and I swallow the lump in my throat to groan; “I’m sorry, sir. I… I want my present.”

Schillinger’s fist tightens and twists my head to a painful angle; “Ask nicely and maybe I’ll give it to you.”

“Please… sir…” my voice sounds foreign to my own ears, so small and pained; “…may I have my present, please, Sir?”

He’s silent for what seems like an eternity and I close my eyes, waiting for another strike. And then, almost unexpectedly, he loosens his grip and my head slides back down with a dull ache. “Not bad. I almost believe you want it.”

Fucking asshole. Fucking racist, rapist, son of a fucking bitch, worthless piece of shit. With a sigh, I slide off my mattress and onto my knees, I know what he wants. Nuzzling against his zipper, finding the tab with my teeth and pull it down, I don’t even gag when he shoves into my mouth anymore. It’s kind of scary, the things a person can get used to.

Again, his hand is at the back of my head but this time he tugs gently as he slowly rocks his hips. “That’s better…” he sighs and I can feel him getting harder with each stroke across my tongue until I have to swallow not to feel it when he pushes against the back of my throat. “God you’ve got a throat like a fucking angel.”

Trying like hell to catch a breath, I can only grunt when hit with the musky scent of him as his grip suddenly tightens and holds my head in place – taking charge even of getting his cock sucked. At least that means it’ll be over soon, he’ll shoot and then climb back up in his bunk so I can stare up at the fucking springs a little longer.

“Don’t swallow.” His whispered order stalls me and I try to relax my throat, squeezing and hitching anyway with each thrust; “If I cum in your slutty fucking mouth I’m going to have to fuck you with my fist.” He strokes his large hand over my cheek and I’m acutely aware of how long and thick each finger is before he slaps me again.

I know he will, too. He never lies about punishments. I can taste the bile working its way back up, the vinaigrette had been a bad idea after all, but I don’t throw up. And I don’t swallow. And I can feel wetness burning my eyes as he pounds my face with slow, hard thrusts. Please don’t come… please…

“Mmm, that’s better…” he moans, forcing himself deep enough that I can’t resist the instinct to either swallow or choke – and when he slaps me again I can’t help crying out around the base of his cock, choking on him. “Fucking bitch. You want my fist in your ass? Like being all stretched out and worthless?”

It takes a moment to even realize he’s pulled out, but when I feel an even harder sting of his palm bruising my cheek I realize I can breathe again. “No!” I know I’m nearly sobbing, and when I can finally crawl into my bunk and try to forget it’ll be all I can do not to cry, but when he grabs me by the chin my resolve sets in. Fuck him. Fuck his Nazi fucking cock.

For good measure I guess, he slaps me again and pushes me back on my bunk. “Close your eyes.”

“I don’t want to.” The reply is automatic, a combination of fear and shame for what I know is coming whether I like it or not.

“Does it look like you have a fucking choice?” He’s right, of course, so I sigh and close my eyes – unsurprised when I feel him tugging down my pants. Braced to feel him force back my legs, it’s a bit of a shock to feel his hand on my dick – stroking almost gently. God fucking help me, I can feel myself getting hard. “I knew you were a damn faggot,” he growls, but I don’t even care – I just want him to keep touching me.

Schillinger doesn’t care if I like it, let alone if I get off, and deep down I know there’s something going on – he’s up to something and the pleasure he’s going to give me is going to amount to only more pain. No less, I let out a soft moan and beg; “More… please, Sir…”

His grip tightens as he strokes harder and I can feel myself teetering dangerously close to the edge. “What, on top of being queer you shoot as soon as someone touches you? Stop that shit.”

My eyes fly open at the sudden intense pain of the palm that had made my cheeks hot and red let go of my cock and slapped it hard before he grabbed my aching balls. Screaming silently, afraid even now to see a CO pass by and catch me with my pants down, I tremble under his painful grasp. “I… I’m sorry sir… please… don’t…”

“I decide if you get to enjoy yourself, prag. Don’t fucking forget it.”

“Ye… yes Sir…” I moan when he finally lets go.

He bends down, and for a second I’m almost sure he’s getting down on his knees. I can’t believe I even thought that Vern Fucking Schillinger would suck my dick. Instead he finishes yanking off my pants and tosses them to the other side of the cell before pulling a small slip of pink fabric from under my bed. “You earned your big girl panties today, Beecher.”

What the fuck? I can’t even figure it out before he’s putting them on me and sliding the lace over my aching hard cock. Christ… one more humiliation to bear. At least it’s one I can wear under my clothes this time. “Sir…”

“On your knees, show me what your ass looks like.” He doesn’t give me the chance to obey, only rolls me onto my belly before slapping my ass where the lace stretches tight. They’re too small, and it’s not just because I’m still so fucking hard I want to die. “Christ, Beecher. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were hiding pussy under there.” He slides his fingers under the waistband and pulls them down just enough to expose my ass and digs his fingers into the brand he gave me as he spreads me open. “Maybe you are… little bit of prag pussy, nice and ready to be fucked.”

“N… no…” I whisper, but it’s caught in the sheets as two large fingers force their way inside me. I’ve almost gotten used to his cock, but when he threatens his entire fist I’m genuinely frightened. “Please… just fuck me,” I say louder.

“What was that? I don’t think I heard you.”

“Sir…” I moaned as he began to thrust his fingers hard and fast; “Please fuck me, Sir.”

“Better… you want me to fuck your mouth some more?”

When I moan again, it’s real and I pray that he doesn’t know it. I can feel his fingertips graze against the one place that always makes everything a little easier to take – making me ache even as he stretches me out further. “No… my…” I close my eyes again and force myself to use his words, to give him what he wants to hear just so he’ll get it over with. “Please, Sir, fuck my pussy.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” He withdraws his fingers and before I can adjust to being empty again, and he shoves his cock in with one hard thrust – digging me against the mattress with a loud rhythmic squeal as he bends himself over my back.

It’s animalistic, his hard rutting and the sting of his palm slapping my hip again and again, each rough thrust digging my cock against the soft lace and sending me somewhere else. To another place, another time. To Genevieve so warm and soft underneath me as we make love. “God…” The moan is for her, for the soft press of her perfect breasts and the way it felt to be inside her.

“Gonna mess your panties sweetheart?” Schillinger moans against my ear, but I’m too far gone to even care. I’m gonna… god fucking damn it I’m going to…

“Yes…” I gasp, shuddering against my will as his breathing grows ragged against my ear; “God yes.”

His hips jerk and grind down against me, bucking hard and fast – I can feel it, I mean I know it’s probably bullshit but I swear I can feel him pulse and throb inside me as he pushes his full weight on me, hitching and thrusting deeper as he comes. “Do it, Beecher,” his rumbling voice penetrates me even deeper than his cock, replacing Genevieve with the sore horrible reality of tipping over the edge and shooting my load in the too-tight pink lace he’s forced on me. Coming… for him. Because of him.

I’m fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fictional parody in no way intended to infringe upon the rights of any individual or corporate entity. Any and all characters or celebrity personae belong to their rightful owners. Absolutely no money has or will be gained from this work. Please do not publicly link, repost or redistribute without letting me know first.


End file.
